


just the tip, please

by ladililn



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Car Sex, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17492993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: The nearest pizza place may have mediocre pizza and a takeout system that's definitely a front for something, but it also has Sokka.Zuko may or may not order an inordinate amount of pizza.





	just the tip, please

**Author's Note:**

> I got the inspiration for this from a My Brother, My Brother and Me episode. SHRUG EMOJI

As far as Zuko can tell, he’s the only person who ever orders takeout from the pizza place near his apartment.

It’s a small establishment, not exactly the prettiest to look at, the easiest to find, or the best-reviewed on Yelp. Still, Zuko knows they make deliveries, presumably mostly to college students just like him who would rather pay a few extra dollars for the delivery charge than have to leave the house. And he’s seen people go inside to order, wait around in the cramped space for twenty minutes or so while their pizza gets made, and leave with boxes in hand. Clearly he’s not the only person eating this place’s pizza at _all_.

To be fair, their takeout system is…weird. A couple times a week—depending on how his week is going—Zuko will call the restaurant as he’s getting ready to leave his last class of the day or his uncle’s tea shop. He’ll tell them what he wants, they tell him what time it’ll be ready. And then they ask him to describe his car.

When he pulls up to the specially designated Takeout Spot, which is located on the far end of the building, hidden from the road and separate from the rest of the parking lot, and looks exactly like the kind of shadowy place someone could get murdered without their body being discovered for weeks, he flashes his lights and waits. Usually it’s not more than a minute or two before the restaurant door swings open in his rearview mirror and a guy comes out with his pizza.

The guy’s name is Sokka. Sokka may or may not be the reason Zuko goes through the deeply weird process of ordering takeout like some kind of terrible spy and/or drug dealer rather than paying the extra few bucks for delivery or going inside. Because—well—Jet delivers the pizzas. Suki usually mans the register. But Sokka does takeout.

Zuko’s not exactly out, except to himself. He has spent the couple years cautiously sounding out the people closest to him, like tossing pebbles into a shadowed pit and listening anxiously for the echo. He broke up with Mai, his high school girlfriend, by telling her he just didn’t think they were compatible long-term. (That’s how he rehearsed it, anyway; in the moment, he stuttered and went blank and wound up asserting that he didn’t think they were combustible.) When a gay celebrity wore a sparkly suit on the red carpet, Zuko mumbled “He looks—nice, right?” while his heart pounded like he was going into battle, and Iroh cheerfully replied, “Yes, and I’ve heard his husband is very cute, too!” (The fact that Zuko had been surest of Iroh’s positive reaction doesn’t negate the relief that seeps through his whole body and leaves him feeling silly and happy the rest of the evening.) To Azula, he’d planned to make some grand statement about LGBTQ rights that, while not identifying him as an _identifier_ , at least made it clear that he was an ally to that particular cause, only to lose his nerve and instead blurt out something about how much he liked Elton John. Her raised eyebrow somehow communicated that she saw exactly what he’d been trying to do and was devastatingly unimpressed with his execution. (It didn’t help that it was another two weeks before he learned why mentioning that his favorite Elton John song was Piano Man had failed to win her over.)

So he’s definitely Not Out, but that doesn’t stop him from obsessively and furtively (he hopes—God, he _hopes_ he’s being furtive) trying to sound out Sokka’s sexual preferences. Zuko has a hoard of Possible Clues that he guards jealously, simultaneously resistant to the idea that any one of them might not actually mean anything and constantly doubting whether they do. Sokka frequently has on chipped nail polish. He wears a choker (but that might just be a cultural thing?). And once, while waiting for Zuko to count out cash, he’d said something about Jason Momoa being “so fucking hot” in the new Aquaman movie. (Zuko had completely lost count and had to start over, and he’d driven home riding a high of certainty, only to get home and do some Googling that turned up a Reddit thread in which at least a dozen users commented some variation of “I’m straight but Jason Momoa is so fucking hot,” which had plunged him once more into Doubt.)

The thing is, Zuko and Sokka have a rapport. At least as much as Zuko can have a rapport with anybody. He doesn’t think “easy rapport” is among his natural talents, but Sokka seems to eat and breathe rapport, so the two of them meet somewhere in the middle. Sokka’s visits out to Zuko’s car tend to last anywhere from five to fifteen minutes, and only part of that is due to the fact that Zuko purposefully never prepares payment beforehand, to avoid absolutely anything that would shorten the exchange.

“I thought you were resistant to cold,” he says, as Sokka stands shivering violently outside his window. “Due to your ‘proud Inuit blood,’ or whatever.”

“I’m also part Hawaiian, did I mention?” Sokka says, teeth chattering. “It’s the weirdest shit. It’s like the lower the temperature drops, the higher my percentage of tropical DNA climbs.”

“You might as well get in,” Zuko says, casually, like he hasn’t been hoping for just such an opportunity since winter set in, like he didn’t purposefully drop his wallet while Sokka was talking to buy some extra time.

Sokka zooms around to slide into the passenger seat before Zuko can so much as blink. Zuko raises his window against the frosty air, enclosing the two of them in the close quarters of his car.

“It’s like a sauna in here,” Sokka says appreciatively, holding his hands in front of the vents (which are indeed blowing maximum heat at full blast). “I can feel the Hawaiian melting out of me as we speak.”

“The way you phrase that is…disturbing.”

“I know. It’s like I’m a big old non-contiguous person blob. This is such a nice fucking car.”

“Uh, thanks,” Zuko says, feeling awkward. It’s not like he paid for it with his own hard-earned money. Speaking of, he’s running out of different ways to count out ten dollars without looking like a complete idiot, so he holds out the cash. Sokka takes it without looking, his other hand busy flipping open the pizza box and—

“Hey!” Zuko says. “You can’t just eat my pizza.”

“I’m taking it as my tip,” Sokka says through a mouthful of pepperoni.

“I already tipped you!” Zuko gestures at the money now poking out of Sokka’s jeans pocket. Part of him itches to take it out—ostensibly to wave it around and prove his point, but mostly to get his hands there, on Sokka’s hip, just for a moment.

“That’s not really a tip, though,” Sokka points out reasonably. “It’s mandatory. Required. I live on that shit. If you _don’t_ tip me—monetarily, I mean—you’re a real asshole. What you’re looking for is some way to tip me that shows how much you appreciate my exemplary service.” Sokka’s eyebrows waggle over a shit-eating grin. Zuko swallows.

“Okay. How about letting you into my car? Doesn’t that count?”

“Mmm.” Sokka snuggles a little further into the passenger seat, no doubt appreciating the dividends of the seat warmer Zuko had turned on while he got in. “Yeah, okay, that’s pretty good.”

“ _And_ you ate some of my pizza,” Zuko points out, triumphant. “If anything, I think you owe _me_ a tip now.”

“I could give you a handjob.”

Zuko swallows his tongue. He can’t see himself, but he’s sure he turns redder than his car, than pizza sauce, than any color produced by nature or civilization. He must have heard wrong, must have turned up the heat so high that he’s having some sort of heatstroke-induced hallucination in which the guy he’s had a crush on for months has climbed into his passenger seat and in less than a minute offered to touch his dick.

Sokka looks totally unembarrassed, meeting Zuko’s gaze patiently, waiting for an answer. Only his leg jiggling up and down betrays the slightest hint of nervous energy.

“Okay.” Zuko has only the faintest conception of having spoken; his voice seems to have come from very far away. Part of him is afraid it will turn out to have only been a weird joke—Sokka’s got plenty of those—but Sokka doesn’t look like he’s joking.

Sokka thumbs open Zuko’s pants. Zuko tries to modulate his breathing, because he’s fairly sure hyperventilating would ruin the moment. He’s already half-hard, and when Sokka rubs him through his underwear he has to bite his lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds. Sokka’s gaze is focused on Zuko’s crotch, Zuko’s on Sokka’s face.

Sokka shifts in his seat, pulling one leg up to give him a better angle. His fingers dip below the waistband of Zuko’s boxer-briefs, skating lightly over hypersensitive skin on their journey down to wrap around his dick. Zuko lets out a harsh breath. Sokka starts stroking him, leaning across the center console, breath hot in Zuko’s ear. Sokka’s hand feels _amazing_. Zuko and Mai did stuff like this a couple different times, and it always felt awkward and not-right, adding to the pile of not-right and what-if that built and built until Zuko was forced to confront the inconvenient truth. Otherwise, he’s only ever been touched by himself, and this is miles away from that, lightyears away.

Zuko’s hips jerk involuntarily, thrusting up into the circle of Sokka’s hand. Sokka’s lips press to the corner of his jaw, right below his ear, which somehow startles Zuko more than the very premise of this encounter. Not in a bad way. He wants to turn his head and capture Sokka in a kiss, but he feels that would somehow break the etiquette of the moment. Sokka drags a thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing precoma, and this time Zuko does groan, all thoughts of etiquette flying from his head.

“Good?” Sokka mumbles in his ear. Zuko can only nod frantically. “Good,” Sokka says, and takes his hand away.

“Wha—”

Zuko doesn’t have time to get the word out before Sokka is clambering over the central console into Zuko’s lap. There’s not a lot of room between Zuko and the steering wheel, and Zuko receives an elbow to the stomach and a knee perilously close to his crotch that make this whole endeavor suddenly seem a lot less sexy, until he finds the button that slides his seat back several freeing inches and _then_ finds himself with a lap full of Hot Guy, whose arousal he can feel pressing against him.

“That’s better,” Sokka says, settling back on Zuko’s legs.

“Um.” Zuko’s hand has settled on Sokka’s lower back of its own accord— _he_ didn’t ask it to go there—and his erection, recovered from the assaults against his person, is still out and weeping. “I don’t—I don’t know if this qualifies as just a handjob anymore.”

It’s the dumbest possible thing he could say in that moment, probably; Zuko’s good at finding those. The last thing he wants is for Sokka to realize he’s right and go _away_. But Sokka just shrugs and flips up his flour-dusted apron to pull his dick out.

“This handjob comes with extra _squeeze_ ,” Sokka deadpans. Zuko gapes at him for a moment, appalled, before grabbing Sokka by the neck and smashing their mouths together. Sokka kisses back enthusiastically, running his tongue along the roof of Zuko’s mouth and biting his lower lip, while—oh _, God_ —he gets his hand around both of them and starts jacking them together, fast and a little too dry, until he pulls away to lick his palm, maintaining eye contact in a way that somehow feels more obscene than everything else they’re doing. Zuko wonders vaguely whether he should start keeping lotion in his car—no, lube, right? He’s technically an adult now, adult people use lube—and then they’re back to the kissing and Sokka is stroking them frantically and it’s messy and clumsy and Zuko feels like he might just combust from how this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him.

He comes instead, in white stripes that paint Sokka’s already sauce-stained apron. Sokka follows moments later, burying his face in Zuko’s neck with a strangled moan. Their chests rise and fall together in the hazy afterglow, Zuko’s hand still pressed to Sokka’s hip, Sokka’s forehead resting on Zuko’s shoulder. Zuko feels vaguely unaware of how he got here, which seems like the kind of worrying realization you would have right before waking up from a too-good-to-be-true dream, except the weight of Sokka on his legs is starting to get painful (he’s so _bony_ ) and the beads of sweat on his forehead are turning cold.

Sokka sits back, a dopy half-smile on his face, and Zuko kisses him before he can worry about whether he’s supposed to, now that his tipping obligation (or Sokka’s? He’s already forgotten the logic that led them to this point) has technically been fulfilled. Luckily Sokka kisses back, soft and easy, running his hand through Zuko’s hair and tugging a little.

“Do you, uh,” Zuko says, feeling his face heat up again, this time more from embarrassment than lust. “Want to eat more of my pizza?”

Sokka sighs heavily. “I should get back. Chan’s gonna notice I’m missing eventually.”

“Okay,” Zuko says, trying to hide his disappointment.

“You’ll be back, though, right? For more pizza?” Sokka waggles his eyebrows when he says _pizza_ , and it’s not a _good_ euphemism, exactly, but Zuko’s pretty sure he’s going to get a Pavlovian boner when he smells pizza for the rest of his life. It’s a heavy cross to bear, but he’s already nodding, so he must not mind.

 

Sokka gets fired three days later, after Zuko blows him in the backseat in lieu of payment. (It wasn’t _meant_ to be in lieu of payment, but between one thing and another (one dick and a mouth) they both just kind of forgot. It doesn’t help that the “eventually” past which Sokka’s manager’s obliviousness does not extend turns out to be thirty minutes. Sokka’s just lucky the guy didn’t notice the suspicious stains on his apron.)

Zuko’s pretty fucking bummed at first, until Sokka points out that they don’t actually need the pretext of a late night covert pizza handoff to _hand_ each other _off_.

“That…doesn’t even really work as wordplay,” Zuko says.

Sokka shrugs. They’re back in Zuko’s car, Sokka having gathered his stuff from his locker and bounced (“Best walk of shame ever—Suki cheered, Jet whistled, Longshot gave me a respectful nod”) right into the passenger seat. He takes a bite of the pizza Zuko ordered, a good hour ago now, and makes a face. “Ugh, room-temperature. The worst kind of pizza.”

“That’s kind of our fault,” Zuko points out, pulling out of the parking lot. He should ask Sokka where he lives, if he’s supposed to take him home, but what he really wants is a way to ask Sokka to come over without it being awkward or too much too soon or—

“You should take me to your place,” Sokka says, slouching down in his seat and shoving the disappointing pizza box onto the dash, “and we can watch a movie and have sex and order pizza. Not necessarily in that order.”

Instead of pointing out that he has a perfectly reheat-capable oven, Zuko says, “There are much better pizza places we could order from, you know.”

Sokka smirks. “Yeah, but this one’s closest. And Jet was just about to leave on a really far delivery, which means Chan would have to deliver.”

“You’re going to answer the door half-naked, aren’t you?” Zuko hasn’t technically known Sokka for that long—small chunks of time a few times a week, through a window, for the most part—but somehow the core of Sokka’s _Sokka_ ness seems to communicate itself fully the instant he opens his mouth.

Instead of answering, Sokka pulls out a slightly floppy car-temperature breadstick and licks up its length, then pops one end into his mouth and moans, eyes fluttering closed. Zuko can’t tell whether Sokka is trying to make him laugh, horny, or hungry. Maybe a combination of all three? Maybe it’s working?

He gets the feeling he’s going to be feeling horny-hungry-amused a lot from now on. He doesn’t mind. At all. But after tonight, they’re finding a better place to order pizza from.


End file.
